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A GiTTLE Philosophy of Hife 



A niTTLE DhILOSOPHY 

of HlFE 

\_By Robert J:^ Burdette] 

"For njuhat is your Life? It is even 

a 'vapour, that appeareth for 

a little time, and then 

vanisheth aijvay." 

— James 4; 14. 



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Copyright. 1914 

B Y 

Robert J. Burdette 



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©CI.A;!T3178 



To My Little Granddaughter 

Glara ©radley (Dheeler 

T^X/^//0, with tottering baby steps, is coming 
yy in to the entrance 0/ the Stage of Life, 
just as her Grandfather, ivith footsteps equally 
uncertain, is slowly passing out at its Exit. 
The baby, doubtless wondering much that the 
World should be so immeasurably large. He 
certainly, marvelling, as he looks back, that a 
Stage so small and circumscribed could hold so 
many people. She looks at her Grandfather 
with the M^onder-Wisdom in the baby eyes, but 
she does not know what he is thinking, nor how 
much he knows. And he, looking at the Little 
One with the meditative inquiry of Old Age, 
knows just as little what she is thinking, just as 
little how much she knows. For a handful of 
days only have they known one another, each 
speaking a language strange and incomprehen- 
sible to the other. But the two hearts, one old 
as the ashes of last year's camp fires, the other 
young and fragrant as the roses of this June 
morning, have knitted themselves together with 
a love that ivill outlive Time. This is one of 
the Beautiful Mysteries of Life. "And the 
Evening and the Morning are another Day." 



Sunn V CREST" 

Pasadena, California 

c'hristmastide, 1913 



A Kittle Chilosophy 

of HlFE 



X 



S THERE such a thing as a "philosophy of life?" 
Life is the philosophy of everything; the study 
of all things; the testing of all things. 



•^ The lucky man is he who despises luck. 
The unlucky one is the fellow who worships it. 

«^ Great inventions may be wrought out in the brain. 
Great thoughts are born in the heart. 

«^ One of the best ways to find trouble, my boy, is to carry 
a revolver without knowing how to use it. 

«^ Memory may be a hell or a paradise. It depends on 
whether you spend your youth manufacturing brimstone or 
planting roses. 

^ When I hear a man trying to do all the talking for the 
crowd, I remember that a drum makes more noise than a 
cask of sugar, because it is empty. 

<^ A MAN is a fool to worry about his "past," if he has one. 
A man or woman with a "past" isn't half so badly off as the 
sinner who yet has "something coming to him." 

[9] 



[a Little Philosophy of LifeJ 

•^ I don't believe in rejecting and despising a man because 
of his faults. Make them useful to him. For example, a con- 
ceited man is like a tire, which is of no earthly account until 
it is inflated. 

•^ One of the meanest things about sowing wild oats is 
that the profligate scatters about half the seed on some good 
man's wheat field. And more than half the wild oats turn 
out to be rye. 

«^ Whenever you begin to complain that you are not ap- 
preciated, you are plainly off your job. When a dog is chasing 
a rabbit he doesn't care whether you call him pet names or 
throw stones at him. 

•^ Very few men are vain, I think. But all men love com- 
fort as their chief joy. There isn't one man in a thousand 
who would exchange his good digestion for a handsome face. 
Now, a woman 

*** Money talks — yes, my son. But only while it's work- 
ing. When it goes on strike, or is loafing on general 
principles, it loses interest in everything and becomes as 
silent as a log on a mudbank. 

J^ A MAN can hardly be so bad that he will not have some 
friends who believe in him and who stick to him. But the 
trouble with a bad man is, that his friends are so much like 
himself he would be much better off without any. 

[10] 



[a Little Philosophy of LifeJ 

«^ It is pleasant to have people love you who do not know 
you. But oh, the immeasurable love of a friend who has 
found you out, who knows you through and through, and 
still loves you. Well, that's the way God loves us. 

^ It has been a good world to me. I have always had 
more friends than I could count and more good fortune than 
I could measure. I have always got everything I wanted. 
When I couldn't get it, I didn't want it, which is the same 
thing as having it. Sometimes it is better. 

^ No, religion does not give — it does not promise a man 
immunity from misfortunes. Neither does an accident policy 
promise or protect the holder from a railway smash-up or 
an automobile accident. But it is a beautifully comforting 
thing to the insured while he's in the hospital. 

*^ What you wish you were, that's your ideal. What 
people say you are, that's your reputation. What you know 
you are, that's your character. To paraphrase Abraham 
Lincoln, you may fool some other people part of the time, 
but you can't fool yourself a little bit of the time. 

-^ The heart always has ruled the world, and it always 
will. Love is the best teacher in the universe, because it is 
the most patient. The race of mankind is wise and strong, 
as it is today, only because ten thousand years of our stupidity, 
our obstinacy and our ingratitude haven't wearied God. 

[11] 



I A Little Philosophy of Life] 

<^ If the uses of adversity are not sweet — and Paul says 
they are not — they are most efficacious. You have to hit a 
nail on the head half a dozen times before it will comprehend 
its perfect destiny. Well, God has to deal with some men — 
fellows like you and me — in the same manner, sometimes. 

«^ Life has never presented many "problems" to me. I 
have been too busy. Working people do not evolve "prob- 
lems." They are invented by the learned idlers, gossiping 
about the market place like Paul's Athenians, "who spend 
their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some 
new thing." 

^ I HAVE lived a busy life. I entered the newspaper grind 
early, and I have never been out of the old mill. Whether 
I abode at home or went on long journeys, around the town 
or around the world, I carried my work with me. My vaca- 
tions were merely "assignments." The nearest postoffice was 
a copybook. People and things were "stories." 

«^ It IS a good world. Five times in the story of Creation 
the historian pauses to say as new things were made, "and 
God saw that it was good." And the seventh day — the day 
of completion and rest. He made holy forever, "blessing and 
sanctifying it." So the cornerstone of creation is goodness, 
the finial holiness. How could a better world be made? 

«^ It isn't enough to be good nor to do good. It is quite 
essential to do good in the right way. A prayer for many 

[12] 



[a I, ittle Philosophy of I, ifeJ 

of our Best Sinners would be — "Dear Christ of the Leper, 
Savior of the Publican, Lover of the Unlovely and Friend 
of the Hateful, forgive me in that I have done good spitefully, 
that I have given alms scornfully, that I have done a kindness 
savagely, and that I have loved a friend grudgingly." 

«*• Whenever I have done right, it has always seemed to 
me that somebody or something helped me. But when I 
have gone wrong, I have sinned through no one's fault but 
my own. No man ever made me do wrong. The man who 
has the headache next morning is the fellow who transgressed 
the night before. The sinner can no more shift his respon- 
sibility than he can wish his headache off on the other fellow. 

^ Well, I have always loved to work. It has been pleas- 
ant in the old mill, with its rafters bronzing by the years, its 
shadowy corners, its far views from the dormers up in the 
loft, the mysterious gurglings and murmurings of hidden 
waters down deep among the foundations, the quiet pond and 
the earnest rush of the race, and the merry laughter of the 
"tail race." For I ground my finest flour from the grist the 
people brought me. The best of my work might have been 
done much better ; the worst of it had better been left undone ; 
all of it has been mediocre. But I ground the grist that was 
brought me, and took only fair toll. And some day, in a better 
mill, with improved machinery, with finer material, with 
choicer grist, a steadier power and a better light I will do 
better work. 

[13] 



[a Little PHrLOSOPHv of Life] 

•^ A GOOD father and a good mother — "old fashioned?" 
Well, yes; about as old-fashioned as fathers and mothers have 
been ever since the birth of Cain — taught me from a Good 
Book that the way of life and the plan of salvation is so 
simple and plain that not even the philosophers could mud- 
dle it — "He hath showed thee, O man, what is good, and 
what doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly, to love 
mercy, to walk humbly with God." That's plain enough 
until some learned man begins to explain it. If that's all 
that God wants of me, I don't care what the "Apostle's 
Creed," or the "Thirty-nine Articles," or the "Confession of 
Faith" demands of me. But that seems to include about 
everything. And yet I believe in "creeds." How can a 
man live without a standard? 

^ I NEVER worry about the Day of Judgment. That 
there will be one I am positive. That it will be as dreadful 
as John of Patmos describes, I believe. But terrible as it 
will be to have all one's sins uncovered and set before God 
and the world, naked and in the light of day, that won't 
be one-half so terrible as it was to have committed them. 
And yet that we rather enjoyed. And another most dreadful 
thing about the Day of Judgment is the fact that somebody 
knows all about our sins now. There never was a "secret 
sin" since the serpent invaded Eden. There have been at 
least three living eye-witnesses to every offense — the sinner, 
the victim, who is frequently only the other sinner, and the 
Judge who is going to try you both. The best time to get 

[14] 



[a Little Philosophy of Life] 

scared about the Day of Judgment is about ten minutes before 
you make a fool of yourself. 

J^ Life has been to me a pilgrimage of joy. I've never had 
very much trouble, and what I have had has been of my own 
making and selection, and when I went to the hospital I took 
my medicine without making faces or asking for "sympathy." 
I was ashamed to. Like "Peter and the Pain Killer," I knew 
I was only getting what I had asked for. But up one hill 
and down the other the pilgrimage had lain through pleasant 
places — good roads, safe trails, fine pasturage, sweet water 
and beautiful camping places. A few giants, mostly wind- 
mills; millions of midgets and mosquitoes, troublesome but 
not fatal ; occasionally a mean man, so ashamed of himself 
that he lied about it; now and then a liar; once in a while 
a hold-up man, with a subscription paper; and all along the 
way a horde of beggars. But in the main good people ; kind- 
hearted, generous people, honest people. Lots of houses build 
close "by the side of the road." The world is full of friendly 
people for friendly men. And I'm fond of people. I believe 
in them. I love them. I sympathize with them. I like to 
meet them, and to walk with them, and to have them about 
me, so long as they can stand me. 

•^ A YOUNG disciple one day asked me, when I was pastor 
of the Temple, "Pastor, how can I learn to trust God ? How 
can I acquire faith?" And I said, "That is easy and simple. 
Just lie down at night and go to sleep. You are helpless and 

[15] 



[a Little Philosophy nf i.ifeJ 

defenseless as a dead person. You do not see the storm gath- 
ering above your home, with black destruction in its whirling 
wings. You cannot see the tiny tongue of flame catching at 
the corner of the room in which you sleep. You do not hear 
the robber stealthily unfastening the fancied security of lock 
and bolt. You know absolutely nothing of the score of evila 
that may be threatening your peace and safety. The night 
may be ghastly with perils all about you. But you sleep 
sweetly, safely, and you awake in the morning refreshed and 
strengthened. Protecting love has enfolded you like a gar- 
ment. And you believed it would when you lay down, else 
you never could have gone to sleep. Well, that's trust. 
That's perfect trust. Just hold on to it while you are 
awake. Who takes care of you while you sleep ? Not father 
and mother. Not the servants. Nor the watchdog. Nor 
the policeman a mile away. "Except the Lord keep the city, 
the watchman waketh but in vain." You trust in God, 
that's all. 

«?• Do I believe in laughter as much as ever I did ? A great 
deal more than ever I did, even in the days that were rip- 
ples of dimples on the sunlit eddies of a river of laughter. 
How could life be best lived without it — God's exclusive gift 
to his human children? Laughter is a good servant. But 
don't overwork him or he will sulk, and maybe strike for 
shorter hours. Don't smile so much all day that the corners 
of your mouth droop with weariness when you come home 

[16] 



[a Little Philosophy of Life] 

at night. "Always leave them vith a laugh" is the axiom 
of a commercial traveler who has no home. Laughter is 
cheery, good-natured, willing, but wearies easily. He is a 
poor hand at "day's work" and tires at a continuous job. 
He is a thoroughbred, and must be humored and well 
groomed. You can't work him like a plow-horse. He shines 
most brightly at "piece work." He must needs have inter- 
vals of quiet meditation ; sober reflection ; tranquil introspec- 
tion. He must have the inspiration of earnest purpose ; the 
repose of a little minute of prayer. Don't mistake the ever- 
lasting barnyard cackle that emanates from between the roof 
of the mouth and the glottis for Laughter. Unless there is 
brain and heart — intellect and love in it — it isn't the laughter 
that I know anything about. The thing on the face of a 
skull is a grin, but it isn't a smile. It used to be, but the 
smile died when it became perpetual. No matter what the 
empty-headed philosophers say on the postcards, don't try to 
smile all the time. Unless you want people to hate the sight 
of you. 

^ Life is a book in which we read a page a day. We can't 
read a page ahead; we can not turn clear over to the last 
chapter to see how it ends, because we write the story our- 
selves, setting the type, as a good compositor can do, from the 
copy of our own thoughts and actions, till the evening of 
each day runs off the edition. The best compositor is he who 
sets each day's page with the fewest errors, and wastes the 
least time correcting a "dirty proof." Even with the best 

[17] 



La Little Philosophy 0/ LifeJ 

of US, much of each day's page is an "errata" correcting the 
mistakes of yesterday. Unsinkable ships — the bottom of the 
sea is covered with them. Invuhierable armor — it cumbers 
the reefs, full of holes. Incontrovertible arguments and incon- 
testable theories — they lie dusting in the scrap-heaps of history 
and philosophy, answered, contradicted, disproved and thrown 
away. But the pages are — or should be — growing cleaner 
every day. The compositor learns. The child is fearless, 
knowing nothing. So he grasps the flaming candle. The old 
man is cautious, knowing too much. He knows that ice burns 
like fire. And another thing to be remembered about this 
book of life which every one of us is writing, each for him- 
self. The pages are all the same size — twenty-four hours, 
brevier measure. "The evening and the morning was the 
first day." That established the standard. And every morn- 
ing the inexorable office boy with the intolerable name stands 
at your door shouting "copy!" And you've got to furnish 
it. Got to. Got to. Got to. Kill your grandmother once a 
week to get to the ball game if you will — that goes into your 
"story" and fills up that day's page. That's life. 

«^ Is THE world as funny as it used to be? Funnier, my 
son; a great deal funnier. It grows "funnier" as you grow 
older. But it doesn't know it, because it is apt to be "fun- 
niest" when it thinks it is wisest. Laughter grows more 
serious as it contemplates the funny old world. The trage- 
dies of the years temper the jests. Yes; I understand. I read 

[18] 



[a Little Philosophy of I.iff. ] 

a paragraph about myself in a critical editorial the other day, 
saying that "ten years of the ministry had taken much of 
the ginger out of old Bob's fun." It was written by a young 
man, of course. The things that are funny to him were 
uproariously funny to me fifty years ago. I used to write 
funny sketches about sudden death and funerals. But during 
ten years of the ministry I have sat beside many deathbeds, 
and have stood beside many caskets trying to speak words of 
consolation for breaking hearts. Today, I can't laugh over 
"Buck Fanshaw's Funeral" — the funniest mortuary narrative 
ever written. Misfortunes used to be my principal stock in 
trade for mirthful sketches. Ten years in the ministry have 
made the sorrows of thousands of people my own. What a 
rollick there used to be in a good poker story, told in rattling 
phrase. I have seen too many homes broken up and too many 
lives wrecked by the gamblers to appreciate the humor of the 
cards. Twice I have seen men murdered at the gaming table 
— and each murder was followed by a hanging. Hard to 
write funny poker stories with those grisly phantoms of blood 
and strangling leering up into your face from the white sheet 
under your pen. Eh ? And when there was nothing else to 
write about on a dull day, the drunkard was always an un- 
failing figure for comedy. What could be funnier than a 
drunken man? Well, now I can no more appreciate the 
drunken man, even on the comic stage, than the wife whose 
face he bruised with his clenched fist could appreciate the 
antics of her drunken husband. I have seen the brute too 

[19] 



I A Little Philosophy of Life] 

often at close range, with all the old manhood gone, and not 
a thing but the brute and the devil left. Oh, I enjoy life 
better than ever I did. I can assure my critic that "ginger 
is still hot i' the mouth." The world is just as funny as ever. 
But the fun has changed with the point of view. Don't you 
understand, son? It's the old story of the frogs and the boys. 
Humor is a matter of personal taste, to a great extent. What 
sends your neighbor into convulsions of mirth may disgust 
you to the very soul. 

<^ It has been such a good world that I'd be sorry ever to 
leave it, if there wasn't another one, as much better than this, 
as this one is better than the chaos out of which it was born. 
No; I don't just "believe" this; I know it. That's one of the 
few things I do know — positively, absolutely, certainly, and 
I didn't have to wait for Sir Oliver Lodge to tell me about 
it, either. I knew that when I was a boy, just as well as Sir 
Oliver knows it now, and for the same reasons, and with the 
same proofs. All this summer and late into the autumn days 
we have been living in our seaside home, "Eventide," — so 
named by Mrs. Burdette because it faces the sunset. "After- 
noon land" is very pleasant in spite of broken health and 
increasing weakness. Every evening I sit in the sun-room 
and watch the sun creep down the western wall of the sky, 
sinking to its rest beyond the farther rim of the blue Pacific. 
I know what is over there, because I have journeyed in those 
lands, and can follow the sun as he fades out of sight and 
begins to illumine the Orient. There, just where he drops 

[20] 



[a Little Philosophy of Lite] 

below the waves, rise the green shores of picturesque Japan. 
Yokohama, Tokyo, Nikko, snow-crowned Fujihama, the 
beautiful Inland Sea, — I can see them all. There where that 
silver star is shining through the crimson bars of the clouds, 
is China. Over there, where the clouds are white as snow 
banks — there is Manila. Yonder, where the black cloud is 
tipped with flame, is Port Arthur. I know them all. I have 
been there. Well, beyond the gates of the sunset, farther 
away than the stars, away past the bars of the night, there is 
another land. I have never seen it. I have never seen anyone 
who has been there. But all that I know about the oriental 
lands in which I have journeyed is mere conjecture with my 
positive belief in that Blessed Land which eye hath not seen. 
That Fair and Happy Country I do know. Know it with 
a subltme assurance which is never shadowed by a cloud of 
passing doubt. I may become confused in my terrestrial 
geography. But this Heaven of ours — no man, no circum- 
stance can ever shake my faith in that. As the sun sinks 
lower and the skies grow darker in the deepening twilight, 
the star of Faith shines more brightly and Hope sings more 
clearly and sweetly. Every evening, when the sun goes down, 
I can see that land of Eternal Morning. I know it is there, 
not because I have seen it, but because I do see it. The 
Shadowless Land, "where we shall hunger no more, neither 
thirst any more; where there shall be no more death, neither 
sorrow, nor crjnng, neither shall there be any more pain ; 

[21] 



[a Little Philosophy of Lite] 

where God shall dwell with men, and they shall be His 
people, and He shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 

«^ The shadows are deeping around the pond and the 
stream is singing itself to sleep. But there is yet a little grist 
in the hopper, and while the water serves I will keep on 
grinding. And by the time the sun is down, and the flow in 
the race is not enough to turn the big wheel, the grist will 
have run out, and I will have the old mill swept and tidied 
for the night. And then, for home.and a cheery evening, a 
quiet night, lighted with stars and pillowed with sleep. And 
after that, the dawning, and another day; fairer than any I 
have ever seen in this beautiful world of roseate mornings 
and radiant sunsets. 



[22] 






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